James doesn't realize when he wakes. He is only aware of a blackness, the sort of blackness your brain invents things about because humans are sight-based creatures that need to see. He does not realize he has woken. He doesn't realize he had fallen asleep. He thinks he's still in bed, waiting. It happens between one moment and the next; he doesn't notice a change. Maybe it gets darker? He only notices when he goes to roll over. He runs into a wall.

He's stuck in a small space. He can't maneuver his arms, can barely spread his legs. In the blackness, he feels around, woozy. Disoriented. He feels pressure on his back. That means he's facing up, right? He is on a surface covered by soft fabric. Pressing reveals a hard surface underneath the fabric. maybe a bit of stuffing or batting between the layers, with the slight bit of give.

A padded box? In a padded box on his back, no less. Why not a closet, if it needs to be somewhere small? Or a locker. He's never been shoved into a locker before. That would be even tighter than this. He might not fit.

James feels around for his phone, realizing a bit of light might help. He doesn't find it. He does follow the strip of cloth on his chest up to his throat — a tie. A tie goes with a suit. He's in a suit, in a padded box.

… is he in a casket? What kind of Kill Bill shit is this?

If he's in a casket, the next step is to get out. So how does he get out? In Kill Bill, the protagonist punches her way out. Maybe he has to do the same?

There's hardly enough room for him to punch in here. There's not even room to get his arm straight. Then again, does he need to think about it that hard? This is a dream. Maybe all he needs is to do.

First, James tears off the fabric covering on the inside of the lid, exposing the exterior layer: smooth, cold metal. He shoves the silk and batting down by his feet. He's still too worried about the mechanics. Maybe if he punches diagonally, he'll have enough room to hold his wrist straight?

It works. The exterior folds like paper. His hand comes back muddy as wet earth trickles in. He's suddenly a lot more optimistic about his chances of waking up without choking on dirt. Confidence means things move faster, after that.

He peels the hole wider, and the thin metal gives just as easy as before. When the dirt falls in, he pushes it to the bottom of the casket. He makes a cavity big enough to sit upright in. It's just digging from there.

Breathing in dirt makes him hack and cough. More realistic than he was expecting from a dream. He can't say he appreciates it.

James uses his legs to push himself up and his arms to pull himself forwards. After desperate minutes his head breaks the surface and he gasps, starving for air. It's as pitch black on the surface as it was in the grave. He finds himself annoyed by the looming figures his mind invents.

He pulls himself the rest of the way out in a scrambling motion. It's easier than he expects it to be, but dreams always are, except when they're paradoxically not. As he sits on he ground, breathing hard, he realizes he cut himself on the metal. blood streaks down his hand. He licks the wound, but it tastes strange. The metallic flavor of blood is present, but something else is there, too.

This is a strange dream.

Eventually, James gets up. Compresses his hand with the handkerchief in his breast pocket until the bleeding stops. He stumbles out of the graves and onto a road. He walks.

He walks until daylight. He walks past houses. He walks as cars and truck roar by. He walks and walks and walks. That is how he spends the first day.